“Those who study revenge keep their own wounds green.” Francis Bacon

This was written as a companion piece to “Happy Anniversary”. It seems to me that women always know, on some level, when a man betrays them. I wondered what the wife of “Happy Anniversary”‘s main character might allow herself to do after learning to live with long term betrayal. This story was the result.
“Mine’s bigger than that?”

Not what I expect to hear in the produce aisle at Safeways. I look up from the cucumber I’m holding, into the face of a boy so young he looks newer than the Armani suit he’s wearing. He is grinning at me, waving his cucumber, which is indeed larger than mine but which neither of us was talking about.

“Does that line ever work?”

“I don’t know yet. You’re the first person I’ve used it with.”

“You know I’m almost old enough to be your mother?”

I don’t know why I said that. It isn’t true; at thirty two. I’m too young to be his mother. Yet I’m feeling old today.

“If my mother looked like you I’d be in big trouble.”

Big trouble. That about describes him. He’s 6′ 4″ and worth the climb. I’m 4’11”. If everything is to scale our main trouble will be fitting it all in.

I should smile and walk off. Turn this into a joke I can tell my sister, Jody, about when we go out for lunch. But I like the set of his mouth and the smell of him and the fact that he’s looking at me like I’m everything he wants.

I decide to be wicked. There are many things that make us wicked. In my case it’s a mixture of boredom, opportunity and spite.  It’s my wedding anniversary tomorrow. 10 years and my husband hasn’t really fucked me for the last two. He doesn’t even get back into town until tomorrow afternoon.

I point my cucumber at Armani-boy’s groin, not quite touching him

“Show me”

“Show you what”

“That it’s bigger”


He looks surprised but more interested than worried.

“Here and now cowboy.”

He looks over my head and then he smiles.

“Come with me.”

God I hope so I think to myself.

Just behind me is a pair of see-through plastic doors that lead to the supermarket warehouse. Big boy grasps the wrist of the hand I’m holding the cuke in and pulls me through the doors. He presses me up against a palette of cartons containing olive oil. I’m struck by the fact that they’re extra virgin. The things you notice when you are trying hard not to let yourself think.

We’re standing very close now. He completely covers me. God, I want him to cover me.


Ready. Wet. Salivating. I can’t really be doing this. “Yes.”

The zip sounds as loud as a chainsaw. There’s a little fumbling, then it’s there. Not all the way hard yet but very impressive. And uncut. I’ve never seen an uncut one before. Not in the flesh. I have to touch it.

“Let’s check this out,” My voice sounds calmer than I am.

I press my cucumber up against the underside of his cock. The cuke is maybe 7 inches long, perhaps a little more. He is longer. And almost as thick. My mouth is dry.

“Told you.”

I ignore the smug tone and wrap both my hands around his cock and the cuke. I move the cuke up and down, pulling his foreskin back, releasing a smell that tugs at my belly.

“Whoa, lady, you’ll make me come like that.”

“I’m not a lady. Today I’m a slut. Now come for me. Come all over my hands and I’ll take you home and fuck you till you’re tired.”

My eyes are on his cock, which is swelling. So warm against the cuke and almost as firm.

To his credit he tips my chin upward and says, “Are you sure?”

I squat slightly so that I can lay his cock against my cheek. Then I start to work him with hard fast strokes. “I want your cum right now.”

He’s hard. He’s sweating but he’s still holding back.

I move so that his cock grazes my chin. Gazing up at him with my best fuck-me look I say, “Come for Momma, Baby”. And he does. So much cum these young ones have. It goes on my face, on my hands, over the cuke, everywhere.

When he’s soft enough for the foreskin to go back over his cockhead I stand up, pat his cock affectionately and say, “Come to my house for seconds.”

He’s torn now. I think he’s a little ashamed at his reaction to Mommy. I could lose him here. But he’s in that confused state men enter after they come. He wants to sleep, not make decisions.  I pop his cock back in his pants and say, “Bus is leaving and you have a ticket.” Then I walk out through the doors.

Jesus, what am I doing? Who am I being? I’ll think about that later. Right now I have to keep moving. He catches up with me as I go through the supermarket doors.

“Aren’t you going to pay for that?”

I still have the cuke in my hand. I’d rather add shop lifting to my crimes than take a cum-covered cuke to the checkout.I smile at the boy and lead him out through the door by his tie.

As we drive he looks at the cuke lying on the seat between us. Reality is setting in for him. If I don’t get him home soon he’ll freak.

“Do you like cucumber,” he asks.

“Never eat it”


“My husband loves it. I like to fuck myself with it before I make his salad. This time I’ve already added some dressing.”

This is not so much a lie as a desired truth. I have never fucked myself with a cucumber but then I’m not myself today. I don’t like myself that much anymore.

“Do you have a girl friend?” I ask.

“Yes,” he sounds anxious at the question but I guess him momma brought him up to be honest.

“Is she a good fuck?”

He blushes, bless him.

“Are you a good fuck?” I ask.

“We both have a lot of fun.”

He’s holding back. I’ll bet there’re things his girlfriend doesn’t do.

I turn into the driveway.

“This is your house?”

He means, “This isn’t a motel”

I switch off the engine and lean across to him. I put my hand on his thigh and kiss his jaw.

“I want you to fuck me standing up. I want to climb you like a tree.”

I lick my way along to his chin.

“But most of all, I want that big cock in my ass.”

This surprises both of us. I have never done anal sex. My guess is, at that size, he hasn’t either. The idea obviously appeals. Polite-boy is gone and suddenly there are hands on my breasts and reaching between my legs and holding my head. An impossible number of hands. And a strong soft tongue pushing into my mouth.

“Down boy,” I say after a moment. “Inside, not in the driveway.”

He sees the sense in that and we dash for the door. I keep him moving. I know EXACTLY where I want him, my husband’s Den.

Pulling of each others clothes is hard. Pulling off shoes is harder. After fruitless struggles we each focus on getting out of our own clothes.

God there is a lot of him and much of it is pointing north.

I have a seconds apprehension about my aging flesh and then he says, “You look wonderful” and I choose to believe him

He picks me up.

Let me say that again.

He picks me up. Like I weigh nothing. That in itself is wonderful.

I wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. Then he stops. He looks like a little boy who’s lost something important.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says.

“And I don’t care,” I say and lower myself onto his cock.

Dear God in heaven, is that what it feels like. It’s been such a long time I’ve almost forgotten. But hold on, that’s just the first few inches. He hefts me by my ass like he’s readjusting a parcel and then pushes and FUCK that’s big. Impossibly big. I never realised I could be that… full.

I dig my nails into his shoulders and cry out.

“You OK?” He sounds genuinely worried.

“Fuck me. Fuck me HARD big boy.”

So now I’m living a porn movie and the dialog is no better in real life.

He humps me. But he’s gentle. I don’t want gentle. Not today.

“The desk,” I say, “put me on the desk.”

I sweep my husband’s crap out of the way and lean with my hands behind me on the desk and my ass on the edge. He has to bend a little. He’s staring at my breasts. I cup one in my hand. Large. Too large for my height. I push the nipple up into my mouth and suck. That does it. He starts to bang me. I have to brace my arms to stay on the desk. My thighs will be bruised. I realise that I want my husband to see this. To see me on his desk being fucked by a huge boy who wants me. The thought flares in my brain as my first come hits.

The noise I make sounds so like pain that the boy stops.

I grin at him. “Momma loves that,” I say and I feel his cock pulse inside me.

“But I want you to come in my ass. I really really want that.”

“I’ll hurt you. We need lube.”

I don’t care if he makes me bleed. Somehow extreme seems good today. Necessary even. But he’s a good boy and he won’t play that way.

“Get me my bag.”

He looks absurd with his still-hard cock swaying in front of him as he fetches my bag. All I have is hand cream but it will do. Oil of Ulay becomes oil of ulaid. I smother his cock in cream. There is so much of it. This is going to hurt but I’m so far on the wrong side of good that this feels right.

I turn slowly and lower myself until my breasts are compressed against the desk. I reach back and spread my cheeks, look back over my shoulder and say, “Butt fuck me, Baby. Take it deep.”

There is more pain than pleasure. Much more. Just like my marriage. And just like my marriage the idea of what it SHOULD be keeps me going with it. Who’d have thought I’d have a virginity to lose at this age. My virgin ass ain’t virgin no more.

His hands are digging into my ass. I’m nothing but a hole to him now and he’s drilling it deep. His cum catches me by surprise. Hot fluid in my ass. It takes all my concentration not to piss myself.

The noise he makes withdrawing sounds like a fart. I feel empty. Much emptier than before I started.

There’s no afterglow except the heat of slowly rising shame.

“I should go,” he says, picking up his crushed Armani.


Silence as he dresses and I don’t.

He buttons the shirt wrong but is in too much of a hurry to correct it.

“Thank you maam,” he says as he leaves.

Thank you Maam. Maam. I feel ancient.

The tears don’t start until he’s gone. I sit in my husband’s desk chair, trying to ignore the pain in my ass. I am the pain in my ass. The ass in my pain. I rock slowly, letting my mind babble. I’m not crying because of the pain of the sex, or the humiliation of its emptiness. I’m crying because, despite all that, it is still better than the life I lead each day.

I’ve never sat this side of the desk before. My husband guards his Den. Probably he has secrets. We all have secrets. I decide to distract myself by rifling through his. Secrets are always in the top right hand drawer. And the key is always in the paperclips.

Sour triumph drips through me when I open the drawer. Love letters. Carefully bound.

I open them.

Read them.

All of them.

I had thought nothing could shock me, but these leave me breathless. The letters are from me to him. They are eleven years old. And he keeps them in his top right hand drawer.

I put them back, pick up my clothes and head for the shower.

While the water blesses me with its heat and persistence, I mourn the loss of the woman who wrote those letters. I wonder if he mourns her loss too.

© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

2 thoughts on “Spite

    • Thank you Jo. You might enjoy the companion piece to this – “Happy Anniversary” it’s about her husband

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